Epilogue
by Dreamfall
Summary: It's up to Leo to try and start pulling things back together after the final events of the show. (Even setting the scene feels like major spoilers for the show, so forgive the failed summary. If you've seen the show, you know it ended horribly. This is just to try to tie things up a little.)


**Epilogue**  
><strong>By: <strong>Dreamfall

**Summary: **It's up to Leo to try and start pulling things back together after the final events of the show.

**Warnings: **Serious spoilers for the end of the show. Nothing else comes to mind.

**Author's Note: **I don't watch all that much TV. When I do find something, it's usually years after it came out. _Finder_ was different. I somehow heard about it and watched each episode as it was released, and I adored it, falling always more deeply for the characters and their growth. And then the season ended. Horribly. And then they said they weren't renewing it. And then one of the primary actors died. And what. the. #^(*? They just _left_ it like that. So, yeah, little epilogue to at least provide some hope for the future. I have no anticipation of taking it anywhere else, and its been sitting on my hard drive for a couple years, but I figured if anyone else was as shattered by the series ending as I was, maybe they'd appreciate this. I apologize for the summary: everything else I came up with was all spoilery :p

* * *

><p>He couldn't stay here. Couldn't. He had to go, had to be sure, had to verify his suspicion, prove what he'd found. Why was he even still here? He jerked to his feet—and fell back, unbalanced, arms not moving properly, stuck in some new-age management's order of a self-hug, and his gaze jerked down, taking in the white coat, the arms bound behind him, and he started struggling again,wildly, desperate to move, to go, to find it. The museum needed the truth—more importantly, he needed it, needed to find what he'd set out to find four years ago. It should never have taken this long, he always found what he was looking for. Or he died trying. He rolled to his feet, successfully this time, since he remembered to account for the straight jacket, and threw himself at the door. The padding gave a little beneath him, and he rebounded and fell, unable to catch his balance. He got back up and threw himself at it again with no better result. He tried to stop, to think it through, he could find a way out of anything when he started thinking—but all he could think was of that painting, of the painter, the one who thought he was Winslow Homer, and his desperate need to meet him, to be sure, to get the answer, and he jerked himself back up and threw himself at the door again and again, until he was winded and couldn't manage to pull himself back up, not without his arms.<p>

And then the door cracked open and he was on his feet even though he'd been too tired to even try again, and he threw himself forward, helplessly, desperately, needing to run—but there was another block, this one even firmer than the door, and he was caught in a pair of powerful arms, held against a broad chest, and a voice was rumbling through him, deep as thunder and more familiar than his own. He couldn't understand it at first, couldn't focus on anything but the need to find, and he struggled to get away, to get through that beckoning door. The arms were as firm as metal bands, though, holding him firmly but gently, no give to them—but no take, either. And gradually words started filtering through: his name, first, and random words and syllables that held no meaning until slowly, slowly, they began to. He finally stopped struggling, too exhausted to fight, simply sagging in Leo's arms, shuddering, his face pressed into his friend's broad chest as he tried to make sense of what he was being told.

"You found it," Leo said. "You found it, Walter, the painting. You found the one they sent you after, because it was the only one. There was no counterfeit, because there was no original. Only one painting. It just wasn't done by Winslow Homer—not the original one. Just the man who thought he was him. It was of a lighthouse near the home he was placed in. Winslow Homer never saw it in his life. He couldn't have painted it. There was only one painting, and you found it four years ago. You found it. It's finished. The museum has admitted their error and knows you successfully completed the task they set you four years ago. They've apologized for their mistake and offered you half again your fee in compensation. It's over, Walter, you found it."

He sagged as the meaning finally sank in and the compulsion lost its hold on his mind, taking with it the last vestiges of his energy. He hadn't eaten except what they'd forced down his throat with a tube. Hadn't slept in—in however long. He didn't know. Too long. Too, too long.

Leo's grip softened, and the big man dropped to the floor, taking Walter's unresisting form with him, till they were both seated, Leo leaning back against the wall, breathing a little jerkily, and Walter laying against him, still on the edge of panic. "Found it?" he whispered, desperately needing that verification.

"Yes, Walter. You found it."

He nodded, finally relaxing. "Good," he whispered, or thought he did. He wasn't entirely sure if he managed to get the word out before falling asleep.

Leo let his eyes close and his head drop back against the padded wall, thanking any higher power that cared to listen that he'd broken through. That his word was enough to convince Walter. Seven days. Seven horrible days he'd been working for this, calling in favors to get permission to be in this room, to be able to tell his friend his mission was over, his task complete. Seven days in which Walter had not closed his eyes for longer than it took to blink, hadn't eaten or drunk except when they'd forced tubes down his throat, hadn't spoken except to demand to be released, to explain his need to leave, to beg and bribe and plead and threaten until his voice gave out from lack of water. He hadn't spoken in the last three days. Hadn't done anything but throw himself against that door until he was too tired to stand—and then lie still until he regained some measure of strength and repeat the process. Seven damned days, and Leo would never forgive himself for letting it take so long. But it was over. The time had passed and the favors had been called in and he was where he belonged, at Walter's side, and he'd managed to break through to him.

If he hadn't managed that, hadn't been able to bring Walter back from the edge, get him back to the point where his gift was just a shimmer beneath the surface and not raging through him and making him seem mad instead of gifted, Leo wasn't sure he would have been able to get them to take the next step. To release him. Now he knew he could. Maybe not instantly. Walter had killed three men, albeit in self-defense, as both his mother and brother would testify, and he'd sought out a federal witness despite being under direct orders not to do so. But there were extenuating circumstances. Leo could convince a jury of that if he had to, but he hoped it wouldn't have to come to that, and the sight of Walter sleeping reinvigorated that hope. Even if it did, though, now that Walter knew he'd succeeded, now that the he wasn't searching for anything, he could wait.

Then they'd find a way to get Isabelle her career back. And they'd find Willa and bring her home, and somehow deal with Uncle Shad. Once Walter had rested, once he could focus again, now that that worm in his brain had been vanquished—nothing could stop them now. Everything would be okay.

"Mr. Knox? You really should come out now."

He cracked one eye open to glare up at the doctor standing nervously in the open doorway. "We're fine right here for now," he said. "Walter needs some sleep, and I could use some myself. Never knew these rooms were so comfortable." He gathered himself enough to reach around Walter and roll him into a more comfortable position, hands moving to the straight jacket.

"Mr. Knox—" the man squeaked.

He narrowed his eyes at the doctor, silencing him. "This is no longer necessary," he said, slipping the offending garment off with barely restrained violence. "Walter will not be throwing himself at any more doors."

"You're hardly qualified—"

"I'm the only one qualified," he snarled. "Now shut up and turn off the light. We'll discuss this when Walter wakes up. I take full responsibility for the decision." He bared his teeth in something that was decidedly not a smile when the doctor looked like he was going to try to argue again, and the man squeaked and backed out hurriedly. Leo couldn't bring himself to care when he heard the lock click on the door. They'd deal with that when they woke up. Preferably not for at least sixteen or so hours. Longer would be fine, he decided as darkness swept over him. He wasn't sure if it was the lights turning out, as he'd requested, or merely long repressed fatigue taking over, and his last thought was that he really didn't care.


End file.
